a little like flying
by Parallaxm
Summary: The art of falling upwards, and knowing how to catch yourself on your way down. [TYL]


_._

_a_

_little_

_like _

_flying_

_._

It's a sudden moment.

Everything is still.

There's no hum vibrating off the AC, no _tick-tock_ ringing from the contraption hanging on the wall—no nothing.

The inner workings of his mind are at equilibrium.

A slight scrape breaks the silence as he shifts in the leather seat, feeling the sweat pool at the nape of his neck. He'd rather not turn on the air conditioning, though. Much too loud. An unnecessary disturbance. Instead, he leans over the side of the seat, getting a cup of ice water from the water tank. The coolness feels heavenly, sliding down the inner column of his throat. He grinds the ice cubes with his back molars, and the temperature inside the room seems to simmer down a few degrees.

He leans back, and tries not to think about the boss' predicament for once, or that damn leaky pipe that hasn't been fixed yet (an unsightly rain-catching bucket remained their pathetic solution for the time being), or that gory arcobaleno dissent (he's never seen Reborn afraid of _anything_, and it's pretty damn scary that the little sun guardian had frozen up with fear), or that life was just gliding by at the speed of light and hadn't stopped to catch a breather, and before he knew it he would be—

"Hayato! Where should we go? I was thinking, maybe, you know, we'd take the I-20 bridge and cross the metropolis and head on over past the valleys into the sandy beaches by the ocean; you know, the one that you almost drow—"

"Shut up." He drags a hand down his face.

She plops down across from him, and the table between them isn't enough distance. Everything is too close, and he curses the upheaval of his almost-peace.

"Look, we both know that we have to get away from here."

He glances through the gaps in his fingers. "What?" But he understands what she's saying; he understands a bit too well.

"Just for a bit," she continues eagerly, as if unraveling some groundbreaking plan. "Imagine the wind running a hand through your hair, the sun shining like nobody's business—"

"You're awfully chatty today," he drawls, sitting up. He leans forward, and the table isn't even there anymore. They're close, much too close.  
>"Tell you what. I'll take you to whatever beach you're rambling on about, and you'll knock before you enter next time."<p>

She snorts. "If you didn't want visitors, you would've locked the door."

Dismissively, he says, "That's not the point." He'd wanted a disruption from it all, he'd wanted something else. He just hadn't expected it in the form of... _her. _

"Alright, let's go."

Her grinning response is immediate.

.

They're not, strictly speaking, _allowed _to be there. It's not a site for tourism, and the gates are closed.  
>But they aren't tourists, and a bit of storm flame does wonders to metal gates.<p>

Untrekked mounds of weeds and rock clumps stretched taut over the Earth, as far as the eye could see. The sea estranged itself from the shore only to embrace it moments later as the washes crashed. The vastness of the aquamarine humbled them and put them into scale.

They're nothing but _human. _

Overhead, a big ball of fire beats down on the waters, winking scintillating diamonds of light.  
>The dome of cerulean blue is pale; the sky rejected the brightness of artificial color.<p>

She runs through the field, and he trails behind, watching as she becomes a speck in the distance. He wonders if maybe it'll always be this way. If it was just meant to be like this. They're like tectonic plates, and there's an eternal ridge between them despite their closeness. Earthquakes happen often between them, but they always rise up from the ruins, somehow. Or it could be that he's just used to the negative side of things, and doesn't bother to expect any better.

It's been around five minutes, and something distinctly hollow and paralyzing seeps through his limbs and seizes up in his chest.  
>She comes bounding back, and the front of her shirt is rolled up to keep whatever treasures (junk) she has collected safe.<p>

He finds himself walking toward her.

She grabs his hand, and yanks him down into the grass. She reveals the assortment of seashells piled up in her lap.  
>Picking out a strikingly spiky conch shell, Haru holds it up to his left ear and waits expectantly.<p>

His hands move up as hers fall away, and he holds the shell limply. After a second, he blinks.

"You do realize that the sound derives from the echo inside your ears."

"That doesn't change the effect of crashing waves." She closes her eyes, and brings another, dark-bluish-purple conch up to her right ear.

It almost looks like they're talking on the telephone.

He stands, brushes the sand from his slacks, and offers his hand.

She has a surprisingly strong grip.

The brunette slips off her shoes and pads barefoot across the shore, leaving a trail of footprints in her wake. She turns back to glance at him, and there's something in the gesture that gives rise to a surge of _something_ in his lungs, thudding in his pulse, sharpening the glare of the sunlight.

It takes a few minutes for it to settle in that he had reached for her hand and laced it through his own.

He doesn't question it, but secretly he's suspecting that he might be going insane.

She remains quiet, reveling in the strength of the heat gathering between their palms.  
>It says something, she thinks; but she leaves it unsaid, because that's how things happen for them.<p>

.

A abrupt gust tousles her hair, and it's not the least bit picturesque, the way the wild strands of golden-brown attack her face. A sort-of laugh passes through his lips, and she smiles. She doesn't need any more than this, but senses that he's still got a few missing puzzle pieces. So she leans up and presses the smile into his cheek, inwardly guffawing at the rush of rouge tainting his cheeks as his eyebrows draw downwards in a trademark scowl.

A gush of power thrums through her veins, and she allows herself a small chuckle.

They're still children, deep down.

World-weary children who have grown and sprouted clipped wings, the weight of murder and death and losing crammed into a single soul.

But what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

Right?

So the saying goes.

She stands atop a bar of a wooden ranch fence and leans into the current of forgiveness and sadness caressing their faces in a blasting breath of air.

Basic rule you learn in kindergarten: one person speaks at a time.

But when they speak, they're exchanging a barrage of thoughts at once, at times without opening their mouths at all. A shift in body language may last a sentence, and a soft expression reflecting in the eyes may serve as a comma, bridging one line to the next, sewing them together.

She throws her arms out by her side and feels a bit ridiculous—but to hell with shame. She imagines herself as a plane in the next life, zipping through the sky and _not _spewing greenhouse gas emissions into the atmosphere. A furtive glance tells her he's not looking at her, but out at the hypnotic rhythm of the lapping waves. There's a depth to his gaze that she can't quite place, but he's always been an enigma of sorts. A warm fondness swells in her.

They are so very isolated out here in isolation.

It's a nice feeling.

Like a wandering nomad stumbling upon an oasis in the desert.

Like a sorcerer beholding a floating particle of magic suspended in air.

Like the inseparable strands of a double helix, winding round and round and never letting go.

It is who they are in this moment.

It feels confidentially exhilarating, it feels otherworldly.

And just a little like flying.

.

e n d

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Why yes, the double-helix of DNA <em>can<em> be "separated" (they zip back up afterwards) during replication and transcription, but that's another matter entirely in the realm of fanfiction, hmm?


End file.
